


Edible

by shiphitsthefan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalistic Thoughts, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Fluff, Extremely Enthusiastic Rimming, M/M, Manipulative Will Graham, Murder Husbands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Sassy Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 03:51:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13673688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiphitsthefan/pseuds/shiphitsthefan
Summary: The temptation to take a taste of Will is almost too great for Hannibal to resist. Good thing he isn't the only one who's hungry.





	Edible

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sirenja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sirenja/gifts).



> I swore to myself that I wouldn't write a fic for Valentine's Day, but then Sirenja posted [this gifset](https://sirenja-and-the-stag.tumblr.com/post/169625495298/dinner-is-ready-more-domestic-murder-husbands), and then [Bryan Fuller approved of it](https://sirenja-and-the-stag.tumblr.com/post/170732588433/guess-my-work-here-is-done-omg), and then I started writing this, and now, here we are, victimized by run-on sentences.
> 
> Thanks to [Llewcie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Llewcie/pseuds/Llewcie/works) for looking this over despite how busy she was. Happy Day Before Discount Chocolate, y'all. <3

For a man who professed to hate making eye contact when they first met, all Will seems to do now is stare at Hannibal. He was cautiously covert about it those initial weeks after their plunge into the depths of the icy Atlantic, and that had suited Hannibal. The heated gazes they’d turned on each other; the way they had mirrored each other in those final days of their old lives—how could any other look measure up to such grandeur or be as beautiful? Besides, there was plenty else to examine, given the extent of their injuries and their relative isolation as they recovered.

Hannibal tries not to think of those days often. He came too close to losing the only wonder he cared to see in the world, and not at his own hands.

The latter, however. Hannibal can’t help but picture Will unraveling beneath his fingers, a kaleidoscope of endless permutations.

Will seems determined to put Hannibal under observation in a very different way, however. Some days, Hannibal feels like he's exchanged one prison for another. At least this one is of his own making, he supposes, considering he made Will, who then continued designing himself into his current glory. Hannibal had forged a god, and now he found himself a casualty of his new religion. Hardly new, really; Hannibal has secretly lain at the altar of Will Graham since he held him at gunpoint in his kitchen.

Their new life still revolves around the traditional loci, as well: the kitchen; the dining room; the pantry. It's no surprise that Will's favorite places to sneak a long glance are one and the same. Will follows Hannibal like a shadow, only Hannibal thinks he is the one that is being cast.

Prey in his own home. Hannibal enjoys it more than he is capable of admitting.

Will can't sneak up on him anymore, not with his ever-present cane. But sneaking doesn't seem to be Will's style, anyway. He _wants_ Hannibal to know that he's watching, to catch him in the act a half-second too late. It sets Hannibal on edge—a pleasurable one, but an edge, nonetheless.

But that's all Will does. He only stares. There's no touching to be had in this museum existence of theirs. No punctuation other than a semicolon.

The whole affair is slowly driving Hannibal mad. He thinks more often of the press of a knife into Will's soft belly. Would he lean into it now as he did then? Hannibal can so clearly picture Will's smile as he guides the blade, curious, wondering if Hannibal was up to finishing the job.

Every dish Hannibal prepares under Will's watchful eye inevitably becomes a piece of Will. A liver, a lung, a brain—and Hannibal would again risk developing Creutzfeldt-Jakob for the opportunity to sample the insides of Will's skull. But Hannibal cooks, and it doesn't matter what or who lies on the chopping block. The more Will stares, the more often dinner becomes _him,_ and Hannibal is concerned about the growing temptation.

Will is not Bedelia. Hannibal has no interest in treating him as such. Even so, Hannibal longs, yearns, _aches_ to taste him.

He can only resist for so long before giving in and hosting a last supper. Worst of all, Hannibal's starting to believe Will knows and is merrily courting his own undoing.

 

* * *

 

Typically, Hannibal has respite from Will's eyes when he showers and dresses. They still keep separate rooms; truly, Hannibal is uncertain whether the desire he harbors for Will is shared as everything else between them seems to be.

Exiting the en suite after an unnecessary evening shower only to find Will sitting in his armchair, then, is an unexpected development.

This last fortress breached, Hannibal decides to address the tension. “It's rude to stare,” he says, though he can't help but do so himself.

At home, Will still dresses as he did before their fall, all buttoned shirts and far-from-fashionable vests. The “honeypot suit”, as Will calls his tailored clothes, are saved for Randall Francis, because everything about his outside persona is an inside joke. Hannibal audibly appreciates Randall’s ensembles as often as prudent, but to no avail. Very likely, that's another part of the joke.

There's no humor in his appearance tonight. Will oozes confidence in his blue work shirt, no matter how hideous the vest over top. His legs are splayed open, which isn't unusual; Will has sat that way as long as Hannibal’s known him. It still feels different now, in a way Hannibal can't define.

Will holds his evening whiskey as nonchalantly as ever. If not for the location, Hannibal would be anticipating an irritating song request, something impractical for the harpsichord, let alone the theremin, yet another hallmark of their mutually irritating domesticity.

And the staring. Always the staring. This time, however, Hannibal feels practically _filleted_ by Will's sight.

He only looks amused when he finally says, “Guess you have no choice but to eat me now.”

Hannibal can hear drops of water fall from his hair onto his bare shoulders. It's the only part of him that moves.

Will rolls his eyes when Hannibal says nothing. “You've known that I knew. You _had_ to know that I knew, Hannibal. It's written on your face every time you slice a roast.”

“I had my suspicions, yes.”

“Still a little echo in your ear that sounds like Bedelia?”

Hannibal holds himself in check; Will sneers enough for them both. “She appealed to my tastes.”

“Dear God, but that was terrible.” Will smirks, though, when Hannibal tips his head, the smallest acknowledgment. “So? Any recipes you'd like to share?”

“Nothing of note.” Hannibal feels the towel slip down his hip, and gathers it back up. This is hardly the time. “Nothing presentable.”

“And what of the unnotable and unpresentable?”

There's a slippery feeling beneath Hannibal's skin, like old oil slicked over seawater. “What prompts you to ask?”

Will shrugs, scrunches his face, an exaggerated nonchalance that Hannibal's come to adore. “Just curious about my expiration date.”

“I'd thought we proved our immortality at this juncture.”

Never breaking eye contact, Will grabs his cane—“the grandfather model”, he calls it; Will has as many walking sticks in their home as he does fishing rods—and taps its rubber tip heavily against the floor. He then points it at Hannibal's gift from the Dragon. “Not _so_ impervious to the trappings of time.”

“Hardly a hindrance.”

“So why our psychiatrist’s leg and not mine?” asks Will with a derisive snort.

Hannibal quirks his mouth. “Because you're inconvenient enough as it is.”

“One would think you'd prefer to rid yourself of an inconvenience. Compassion for said inconvenience notwithstanding, of course.” Will takes a sip from his tumbler, savors it. “Which begs the question: how do you want to eat me?”

There's an awkward lump in Hannibal's throat he didn't give permission to form. “I wonder why you're so interested in being consumed.”

“I wonder why you're so loathe to answer the question.”

“Because it's _tiresome.”_ The sudden snap of his voice surprises Hannibal. Dealing with Will's particular brand of sass is as daily of an activity as making coffee twice, or shooing the puppy out of the dining room. This isn't like him; this shouldn't bother him.

He turns to look for his pajamas, no longer interested in looking at Will.

“Well,” and Will doesn't sound the slightest bit perturbed, “since you're so tired, I'll leave you be.” Hannibal hears Will’s now-familiar gait, and the seat of the chair return to its normal state. “Oh, but Hannibal?”

“Yes?” He glances back to the doorway; Will smiles at him congenially.

“There’s more than one way to eat a man. Goodnight.” Over his shoulder, Will adds, “Sweet dreams.”

Hannibal tries not to watch Will walk away, and fails entirely.

 

* * *

 

“It's my brain again, isn't it?” Will asks a few weeks later while they're at the farmers market.

Hannibal continues to study the peaches. “I have no intention of sawing into your skull again, Randall. That was an impulsive decision.”

“No, really?” Will reaches across Hannibal to grab a peach. “This is a good one. Nice and juicy.”

“It will go ripe too quickly.”

“Only if you don't eat it today.”

Hannibal takes the peach from Will's hand to examine. “I don't need them until Tuesday.”

“What happened to being impulsive?” asks Will, snatching it back. Hannibal turns to get it, only to see Will take a giant bite out of it. “See? Delicious.”

His lips glisten with peach juice. Will licks them—not slowly, or teasingly, but only to clean them.

Hannibal's chest hurts.

“Add this to whatever Rinaldo ends up with,” Will tells the laughing saleswoman, and he strolls off, leaving Hannibal to steadfastly not follow the sway of Will's hips as he leaves.

 _It's merely a side effect of using the cane,_ Hannibal reminds himself, as coincidental as the peach. They're beyond sex and romance, sharing an intimacy worthy of myth.

Still, when Hannibal turns back to his shopping, his chest isn't all that's aching.

 

* * *

 

Having a child underfoot would be preferable to the small monster Will brought home shortly after they moved in. It's a mutt—part mop, Hannibal’s decided, without the added benefit of clean floors. The puppy has a disturbingly deep bark, and a habit of romping through Hannibal's herbs, and, currently, a dishtowel.

Given that Will has the other end, it isn't entirely the mongrel's fault.

“Have you named it?” asks Hannibal, pulling out a fresh towel.

“Nah. Not yet. Waiting for inspiration.”

“Of the divine variety?”

Will snaps his fingers at the puppy, then points toward Hannibal. “Sic him, girl.”

But she doesn't, because she _likes_ Hannibal for some awful reason, so Hannibal continues chopping the peaches, even though today is only Sunday, and he'll have to come up with a different entree for when the Clarens come for dinner on Tuesday.

(“It's Valentine's Day,” Will had said. “You should make something ridiculous for Sunday brunch.”

“It's August.”

“I’m sure it's Valentine's Day somewhere.” Will had smirked, then said, “And you're the one who overcooked my brain and ruined my sense of time. Only have yourself to blame.”)

Hannibal is poised over the saucepan with the first handful of peaches when Will casually says, “Lungs.”

“Pardon?”

“Mine, I mean.”

Hannibal blinks, watching the peach flesh drop into the water, concentric ripples visible through the steam. “What of them?” he asks, scooping up another handful.

Will's favored walking shillelagh thunks along the tile, and the puppy whines pitifully as her playmate departs. “I figured the Copycat might want a second taste.”

“Miss Boyle’s were bitter.”

“I don't know,” says Will, “they tasted alright to me.”

Hannibal sees Cassie’s bewildered face in the bottom of the pan. Potential recipes flutter through his mind: kidney beans and chianti; curried and stewed; fresh vegetables and paprika. None of them would do Will justice.

“She was best served scrambled,” Hannibal explains.

Will is behind him now, close enough to feel his body heat through the cotton of Hannibal's shirt. “And what about me?” His breath tickles Hannibal's ear, and Hannibal can so clearly picture Will, balanced precariously on the toes of his good foot and the sturdy tip of the shillelagh. “Is that what you've thought of, Hannibal? Reaching gently into my chest? Lifting out my life?” Will's lips brush the shell of Hannibal's ear as he asks, “Holding my breath in your hands?”

“No.” There's a quiet tremor to Hannibal's voice. It isn't _exactly_ a lie; Hannibal hasn't considered the specific process of harvesting Will’s lungs, only the resulting cuisine. Consuming, and savoring, and nothing more.

He's also never grown hard thinking about it. Murder has never been arousing, though death and life are inextricably intertwined. Still, it makes Hannibal feel common and base. Almost unclean.

Will suddenly steps back, and Hannibal hadn't realized _he_ was the one not breathing. “No lungs with breakfast, then?” He hums, out of time with his cane, an offbeat clapping. “Might want to keep an eye on those peaches, if that’s the case.”

“What are you playing at?” Hannibal asks as he begins to stir.

“Who says I'm playing at anything?” Will's voice echoes from the dining room. “Maybe I'm just trying to survive.”

Hannibal knows better.

 

* * *

 

“Liver.”

Mrs. Clarens looks puzzled over her roast. “Liver?”

Will chuckles, eyes half closed, settling in his chair. “My apologies,” he says, and Hannibal _adores_ the tone of friendly condescension Will's adopted for Randall. Enough to unnerve, but too subtle to be interpreted as anything rude. “Rinaldo and I have a game we play where I try to guess what we’ll be eating for dinner the following night.” He gives Hannibal a coy look. “I brought one home, you know.”

“How interesting! We should try something like that, Henry.”

Insipid. Rebecca hardly knows the rules. Not that Hannibal does, either. Games within games now, and Will so self-assured as to play it in front of company.

“Well, Rinaldo?” Henry asks. “Do you intend to have his liver?”

The briefest of pauses. “Not tomorrow,” Hannibal says, “and not for me. It's his and his alone.”

“A special lunch?” asks Mrs. Clarens.

“Something like that.” _Nothing quite like that._

 

* * *

 

“Do you want my tongue, Hannibal?” Will doesn't even wait for a reply. He simply finishes drying the plate, sets it down, and leaves the kitchen.

For the next two weeks, all Hannibal can think of when he looks at Will is his mouth.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal swears Will is wearing tighter pants. He knows Will hasn't put on weight, but tearing his eyes away from Will's ass is getting harder.

As is Hannibal. Frequently.

They've hunted twice since Will began this game. The first kill was satisfactory in its normal way, instilling a sense of pride and supremacy, confirming Hannibal's place at the top of the food chain. When he and Will went for the second, Will attacked earlier than Hannibal anticipated, went straight for the throat, causing a spray of blood to hit Hannibal square in the face.

The arousal practically _burned_ through him.

Will knows that, too. He must. But Will has never made a move toward a more physical relationship, and Hannibal is hesitant to push. The time for prodding and suggesting has come to a close; any further evolution is up to Will, himself.

Hannibal has felt Will's mouth against his before, but he hardly counts resuscitation as romance. Whether this game is romantic or not remains to be seen.

 

* * *

 

“How about Peaches?”

Hannibal cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder. “For?”

“The dog.”

“I'm not purchasing peaches for it.”

“For a _name,_ Hannibal,” says Will. “Jesus Christ.”

Hannibal sets down his pastry brush to better pinch the bridge of his nose. “You called me while driving to ask about the dog’s name?”

“The vet’s going to ask for one. And no, we can't eat the vet.”

“I hadn't intended to suggest such a—”

“But theoretically.” The strains of Creedence Clearwater Revival grow mercifully fainter. “What would you take from someone like that?”

Hannibal knows where this is going, but asks, anyway. “Like what?”

“Someone who likes dogs.”

“I'm sorry, Will,” says Hannibal, in disbelief of what he's about to do out of sheer desperation. “There seems to be some static on the line.”

 

* * *

 

“You left Bedelia alive,” Will reminds him, sitting down beside Hannibal at the harpsichord.

Hannibal doesn't stop playing, not even when Will's thigh presses against his own. “We secured our pound of flesh from her already.”

“More than.”

“You are not wrong.”

Will picks up Hannibal's staff paper; Hannibal watches him peruse it out of the corner of his eye. “It's more fun to know she's out there waiting. Wondering when we'll come back for the rest.”

“Is that how you feel?” Hannibal creases his brow when Will takes his pencil, too.

“Not specifically, no.”

“Generally, then?”

Will begins scribbling notes onto the staves, seemingly at random. “Waiting,” he murmurs. “Wondering. We share that, I suppose.”

Whether he and Bedelia, or he and Hannibal, Will doesn't say.

“I wasn't aware you composed.” Hannibal would rather puzzle it out than ask directly; Will probably expected that.

“I don't, but I spent one insufferable semester in seventh grade playing trumpet.”

“You didn't enjoy it?”

Will erases one of Hannibal's notes. “It was alright, but the rest of the trumpets were assholes.” Hannibal can't tell if Will means to jostle him or not. “Guess the past prepped me for the present.”

“Is that how you see me?” asks Hannibal. Will's notes are ill-formed, but the melody looks to be tolerable enough, even if it's hardly in keeping with the theme of the piece.

“No,” Will replies, “but you do consort with them. Used to, anyway.” He lays the staff paper down as he rises, tapping his pointer finger on it, as if Hannibal wasn't intending to look immediately. “Although, considering you asked me if I thought you were, you must think of yourself that way, in some form or fashion.”

“I hardly—”

“Which makes sense,” Will continues. “You seem to be the only ass you're interested in.”

Hannibal closes his eyes to keep from rolling them. “And yet an ass presents itself to me daily.”

“Does it, now?” Will claps a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. “How strange that you've yet to do anything about it.”

“Kidney.” The word hisses through Hannibal's teeth, issues from some hidden room buried deep in his memory, unbidden, unsought. He opens his eyes—Will's looking down at him, face etched with intrigue.

“Kidney?”

“The night in the back of the ambulance,” says Hannibal, near-reverent. “I was wrist-deep in the victim, not to take his life, but to save it, and you watched me. Your eyes were a heavy weight, a tangible burden on my shoulders. But I shouldered it gladly, and I…”

Will reaches for Hannibal's cheek, holds it in his palm. Hannibal struggles not to lean into Will's hand. “You what, Hannibal?”

“I hardly knew myself, in that moment. Though it reinforced my belief that I must destroy you, I found for the first time that I loathed the idea.” Hannibal can't swallow. “I wanted to possess you entirely,” he says, “but I knew it was impossible.”

Will’s grin is a comfort. “Not so impossible now, it would seem.” Stroking Hannibal's face, Will says, “That wasn't so hard, now was it?”

“Do I?”

“Possess me?”

“Yes.”

Will considers Hannibal, seeming to assess him. “I don't know,” he finally answers. “Do you?”

Hannibal whispers, “I don't know,” trailing off into a groan when Will grips the hair at the back of Hannibal’s head.

“How hungry are you, Hannibal?”

_“Ravenous.”_

Will releases him, then smooths the hair back into place. “Then why aren't you eating?” he asks. “What do you have to lose?”

“You.” Hannibal feels his mouth shape the word, but doesn't hear it.

“I thought we'd previously established that you wouldn't have to harm a curl on my pretty head.”

_There’s more than one way to eat a man._

_Do you want my tongue, Hannibal?_

_You seem to be the only ass you're interested in._

_How strange that you've yet to do anything about it._

_I figured the Copycat might want a second taste._

_See? Delicious._

Will's manipulation is so transparent now. All Hannibal had to do was stop playing. He's fallen perfectly into Will's trap, been complicit in his own conditioning to associate food and murder with sexual desire. Will has used Hannibal's pride against him. _Bested_ him.

“Cruel boy.” Affection clogs every word.

“Ah! So you see.” Will clucks his tongue. “Most of it, that is.”

“If you desired my attention, Will,” Hannibal says, capturing Will's hand, laying a chaste kiss to his knuckles, “you had only to ask.”

“And where would be the fun in that?” The innocent gleam in Will's eyes mocks Hannibal. “You could have had me months ago, you know. I've been tempting you long before this little game. If only you weren't so concerned with influencing my, dare I say—” He draws out the word, lascivious. “—adolescence.”

Too much. Too far. Will has dangled raw meat in front of a wild beast for too long.

Hannibal pounces, bench falling behind him as he rises. He grabs Will's shoulders before butting him in the head with his own, a clash of skulls. Will seems dazed, but he's laughing, even as Hannibal rips away his cane and trips him with it.

 _“Yes,”_ Will praises once he's caught his breath, leaning back on the floor on his elbows. _“Show me.”_

Hannibal drops to his knees, fingers scrabbling to the waistband of Will's lounge pants, pulling them down his thighs. The boxer briefs aren't so lucky—Hannibal shreds them apart, ripping them off, relishing the shocked sound it pulls from Will's throat. It's nothing like the choked gasp Will makes when Hannibal swallows down his cock, and Hannibal's gagging matches the pitch, but he doesn't stop. It's sloppy and messy; spit is running down Hannibal's chin and over Will's balls.

Will tries to grab Hannibal's hair again, only succeeding in scratching his scalp; Hannibal can smell blood, and it makes the lust worse. He knows that’s thanks to Will, too, and the thought of his protégé holding so much power over him doubles the intensity further. Hannibal clutches Will’s hips, digging in his own nails, bobbing his head on Will's cock so quickly that he's dizzy.

When Will's muscles tense, Hannibal pulls off, but Will hardly has a chance to complete his frustrated growl. It's cut short when Hannibal flips him over, turning it into a pained shout when the shin of his damaged leg lands against the hardwood.

 _“Hush,_ boy,” Hannibal says, snarling. “You want to be eaten so badly?”

“Dear _God,_ yes.”

“Then _take it.”_ That's all the warning Will gets before Hannibal pulls his ass cheeks apart and pushes his face between them.

Will _keens,_ and it stirs something primal in Hannibal's gut, something sinister and untameable. He laps at Will's hole single-mindedly, because this is how he wants to get Will off tonight, no matter how long it takes. The five o’clock shadow that should have been shaven yesterday is stiff with dried spit, and Hannibal's only making the mess worse now, but that hardly matters when he's eating Will out, feasting at long last, dining to a chorus of _fuck_ and _please_ and _shit_ and a veritable litany to whatever god is listening in.

Hannibal rubs his face back and forth, hoping to chafe the sensitive skin, because Will deserves it. He nips at Will's rim with more force than he should; let his boy think Hannibal is going to eat him, from one opening to the other, made of nothing but gluttony. Will just keeps pushing back, no matter what Hannibal does. Eventually, he gets Hannibal's hair around his fingers and presses Hannibal's face in so deeply that Hannibal thinks Will might actually be trying to smother him.

Will's hole is red and abused when Hannibal jerks his head back. He doesn't get long to look—“I never said stop!” Will yells, and Hannibal understands now, sees _all of it_ now. Hannibal has never been in control, and never _will_ be, not so long as this infuriating, marvelous creature writhing on his tongue is allowed to exist. Except no, Hannibal wouldn't be free then, either, merely haunted and with nothing to show for the terrible cost he'd paid.

That’s what this tête-à-tête was truly about: teaching Hannibal his place. It doesn't matter what Hannibal does to Will, where he puts him or sends him off to. Will always triumphs, and there's nothing Hannibal can do to change that. There isn't a game to win; all Hannibal can do is lose.

Hannibal doesn't intend to lose ever, ever again.

He points and thrusts his tongue, pulling Will's hips closer and then pushing them away—truly fucking him. Hannibal isn't going to be a gentleman and let Will come first, however; he's earned a small victory. Palming himself through his pajamas, Hannibal pants his own pleasure against Will's skin, uncaring of the flurry of frantic half-slaps Will rains down on any part of Hannibal he can reach. Will's free hand is still fluttering uselessly, tapping Hannibal occasionally, when Hannibal comes, shouting over the din of Will's frantic complaints.

Hannibal barely gets a hand around Will before he stutters a moan and shoots across the floor. When he moves and rolls Will over, both their chests heaving, there are flecks of come speckling Will's chin and bottom lip. Leaning back down over Will, Hannibal takes the impromptu invitation, licking up each separate drop with the tip of his tongue before delving into Will's mouth.

Beneath him, Will's trying to kick his own pants off the rest of the way, but his arms are already wrapped behind Hannibal's neck, there and gone, his hands beginning to travel lazily down Hannibal’s back. Will frees his legs, and then those are around Hannibal, as well, surrounding him, everywhere at once. They end up on their sides, still embracing, still kissing, still chasing the taste of each other, though mostly of Will.

“Worth it,” says Will when breathing through their noses is no longer breath enough. “Totally, definitely worth it.”

“I take it I lived up to expectations?”

“I take it back. You _are_ an asshole.” Will kisses him again, simple and easy. “And I didn't know what to expect,” he admits. “I'd never been rimmed before.”

Hannibal pulls back to look at him. “This wasn't a ploy to coerce me into—”

“Giving me a rimjob?” Will shakes his head as much as he can, given their position. “No, I just knew you would.”

“How so?”

“Do you have any idea how many times you've stared at my ass over the years?”

Hannibal clears his throat. “I hadn't thought to count.”

Another kiss. Hannibal’s glad neither of them are dying, and that Will is much better at kissing than he is at receiving CPR. He says as much, when they part, and Will wheezes with laughter.

“So you really _did_ save my ass for later.”

Hannibal sees no need to comment.

**Author's Note:**

> [[about me](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/about)] [[tumblr](http://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/)] [[twitter](https://twitter.com/shiphitsthefan)]
> 
> [I made an edit for this fic](https://shiphitsthefan.tumblr.com/post/170857459989/a-bit-of-domestic-fluff-and-shameless-smut). If you enjoyed this fluffy, filthy nonsense, please consider reblogging it! (Don't forget to show Sirenja's gifset some love, too!)
> 
> Kudos and comments validate my existence. <3


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